Saturdays were the best days, and in the holiday season they were best of all. Shoppers came stamping in, parcels rustling, the bell on the door jangling. And then there was chatter. The shop keeper and his wife were always about, helping their patrons with selections and bickering quietly when they thought no one was listening. On this particular Saturday, a man came looking for glass fruit as a gift for his mother who collected such things, and a woman asked about Butterick patterns from 1969.
No one was looking for a single, unmatched cup. But I was used to that. And I didn’t mind much. I had the company of a tarnished silver serving spoon and a thimble, as well as an ancient volume of Edgar Allen Poe poems, although it only muttered darkly to itself. We were a bit of a ragtag team, I will admit. Certainly we hadn’t chosen one another as friends, and had merely been thrown together, as none of us belonged anywhere else. And yet it was a quiet and comfortable existence.
Across the aisle from us, things were much more glamorous. A lamp with a charming tasseled shade sat demurely next to a gold-framed mirror and a beaded scarf. And a bust of some ancient god or Roman emperor sat splendidly beneath a soft spotlight illuminating it as if it had some special powers. These things were so beautiful that the thimble, the spoon and I conjectured endlessly about which of them would be purchased first. But one thing was certain. They would all be gone by Christmas.
I had been in the shop for years – so long that I had nearly forgotten my origins. I’d had brothers and sisters back in the day. We were a beautifully matched set. Over time they had been chipped and broken and tossed out, and when I was the only one left, I had been given to the shop. Just like that — as if I no longer mattered. I remember thinking that I would likely just grow dust, and would never be used for a nice cup of hot tea again.
And now I still thought so. But in fact, my fate was to change that very day.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but when the door jingled next, it was a more pleasant and hopeful sound than the desultory jangle I was accustomed to. A woman with graying hair shuffled in, carrying a few bags and parcels and looking rather weary. Instantly I wanted to comfort her. I can’t quite describe it. I thought if only someone could fill me with a spot of Early Grey, it would be just what she needed to re-energize and finish her errands.
At the sound of the bell, the shop keeper’s wife came from a side room where she had been pricing new items. “Hello, Gloria! Out on holiday errands?”
“Yes,” the woman named Gloria said. She leaned against the counter. “I had forgotten how exhausting Christmas shopping can be. But I’m nearly done. I’ve got things for my son and his wife and their little girl.”
The shop keeper’s wife looked around, perhaps hoping to find something she could entice Gloria with. She was always making suggestions and hoping she could convince people to buy more. “Well, what else might you be looking for, then?”
Gloria stood up straight again. “I’m not sure, but I’ll know when I see it. I’ll just have a look.”
The shop keeper’s wife followed along behind Gloria as she strolled the aisles. “If you tell me who you’re shopping for, I’m sure I can help find just the thing.”
“No, no. That’s alright Barb. I’m just going to browse.” She was near our table, then, and I held my breath. I didn’t suppose she would pick me. I just hoped it would be one of us, and not that predictable lamp or the haughty beaded scarf. Imagine my surprise when she picked me up off the shelf and turned me this way and that. And then she smiled. “This one,” she said.
But Barb was on her like a cat. “That old thing? It’s just a single cup, Gloria. You wouldn’t want that.” She began steering Gloria away. “Let me show you a nice set. See? Here is a splendid collection. You could have six or eight, if you like, in case you ever entertain. You do entertain, don’t you?”
Gloria looked at the beautiful set of matched China cups. “Well I… yes of course.”
The white porcelain cups whispered among themselves hopefully. They were so captivating, with their scalloped edge saucers and charming hand-painted scenes from China. My hopes fell.
But Gloria, who had the contemplative look of someone who had been bossed around more than once, and had to find the truth within herself, turned back. “No, I’m sorry Barb.” She gave a smile that was apologetic, yet determined. “I really just want that one.”
“Suit yourself.” Barb’s shoulders slumped a bit and she turned back toward the counter. No doubt she would have her husband the shopkeeper to contend with. He took pride in the place and treated his wife like a hired hand, giving her sales quotas each day. Barb set me on the counter. “Will this be a gift?”
Gloria looked up from her handbag where she was reaching for payment. “Oh. A gift?” She looked out the window for a moment, then back. “Yes. This will be a gift.”
I was wrapped in nice paper with my saucer, placed gently in a small box, and tumbled about for a time, which suggested to me that the box was being gift wrapped. I had seen this process hundreds of times from the other side.
The next thing I knew we were out on the noisy street. I heard muffled greetings, the sounds of car horns, the bright bark of dog and a laugh and some conversation. Then it was quiet again as we entered a new building. I was placed somewhere still where I would wait for several days, a bit lonely but curious and hopeful. I could hear Gloria moving about, talking on the phone, and playing Christmas music. And I could smell the lovely scent of pine.
One evening a doorbell rang, and then there was noise and laughter and the sound of a little girl’s voice. Was I to be a gift for a child? I heard coats being stowed in a closet, then shortly after that, the scraping of chairs, the sounds of dinner talk and the clinking of glasses and cutlery on plates. There were aromas of a feast, too, which I had been smelling all afternoon and that seemed to marry themselves to the pine scent in a way that brought Christmas so beautifully present in my mind. I remembered Christmases of old with my family. My anticipation for what was to come was nearly unbearable.
At last, after the family’s exclamations of delight over pie, I heard them all come near. The little girl spoke with excitement at what she saw, and I knew I wasn’t alone. There were gifts piled all around. I had heard Gloria wrapping them over the past few days, and placing them around me under the branches.
Then I was picked up. “What’s this, Grandma? There’s no tag. Is it for me?” I felt myself being shaken inside the box.
Gentle hands took me away. “No sweetheart. That one is for… later.” I heard the scraping of branches as I was nestled directly into the tree. “Here, lovey, this one is for you.”
I could hear the little girl unwrapping a package. Then she squealed. “Oh Grandma! A miniature tea set. I love it. Thank you!”
The evening went on that way and then eventually the family helped clean up all the dishes and said goodnight. It became very quiet and still. There was only the sound of a radio playing Christmas songs, and they kept me company through the night as I waited for whatever else was to come. I hummed along with “O Holy Night,” and “Away in a Manger.” Why had I been left alone?
At last, morning came. It was Christmas morning, I knew, because the radio announcer said he was going to be playing the very best Christmas songs all morning. I heard “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” and “Joy to the World” — all the most jubilant and happy songs that my family had once enjoyed. It was bittersweet, that combination of joy and sadness. How I missed them at times like these.
I heard Gloria in the kitchen, singing along with the music and putting on water for tea. Then she came for me. “Well now,” she said. “The wait is over. Let’s see what we have here.”
Carefully, she unwrapped the package, brought me out into the light of Christmas morning and set me on my saucer on a charming table. It was beautiful. She had set out some things for breakfast, and there were flowers and the radio was playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” a song that had always seemed a bit melancholy to me, but that today made me feel joy.
The most wonderful thing happened, then. I was filled with hot tea, warming me from brim to brim. The sweet aroma of Constant Comment tea filled the air, and I knew that at last I had come home.
“Merry Christmas,” Gloria said. And we had the first of many wonderful moments together, warmed by tea and memories and the sweet melodies of good music.
Thank you for reading my story. This is my entry in the Power House Creatives contest, My Gift To You, in which the story must be told from the perspective of the gift.